The marriage wasn’t something either of them chose. Their parents had decided it years ago, presented it as inevitability rather than a question, and by the time {{user}} realized she could protest, it was already done. L never argued. He simply accepted it the same way he accepted cases—without emotion, without resistance. That alone made it harder. If he had hated it, at least she would have understood. But he treated their marriage like a condition of existence, something that simply was.

Night was the worst. During the day, L disappeared into his work, surrounded by screens and files, leaving {{user}} alone with her thoughts. But at night, they were forced into the same space, the same bed, separated only by a thin stretch of mattress and silence. L lay curled slightly toward the edge, knees bent, hands folded near his chest, eyes open and reflective even in the dark. He rarely slept at the same time she did. Sometimes she wondered if he slept at all.

{{user}} stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of electronics from the other room, every sound reminding her that even here, in what was supposed to be private and safe, she was secondary to his work. She wanted to turn toward him, to say something—anything—but every past interaction stopped her. The way he spoke to her in blunt statements, the way he corrected her without softness, the way his words often landed like accusations even when they weren’t meant to be.

“Your breathing changed,” L said suddenly, breaking the silence. “You’re anxious.”

The words weren’t concern. They were observation.

“I’m fine,” {{user}} replied, though her voice betrayed her.

“You’re not,” he said calmly. “You’ve been tense since we turned off the lights.”

She swallowed, her fingers curling into the blanket. “Do you ever think about us?” she asked quietly. “Not the marriage. Just… me.”

There was a pause. Too long.

“I don’t find it productive to dwell on things I can’t quantify,” L answered. “Emotional speculation leads to error.”

Her chest ached. She turned slightly toward him, though he didn’t mirror the movement. “Then why did you agree to this?” she whispered. “If you don’t care. If I don’t matter to you at all.”

“I didn’t say you don’t matter,” he replied, his tone faintly irritated. “I said I don’t approach relationships the way you expect.”